Eyes of Memory
by Ophiomancer
Summary: You can always count on Weiß for self-absorbed melancholy. Teen and twenty-something angst, in four parts.


**Pairing(s):** none

**Warnings:** None that don't apply to the show itself. But just to be safe; violence, angst, moral ambiguity, depression.

**Characters:** Weiß

**Author's Notes**: This is an old, old fic, but I'm trying to comb through my old LJ entries, and copy everything to ff(dot)net that I safely can, since my LJ entries aren't easy to navigate.

**Status:** Completed March 13th, 2006. All four parts together are 833 words.

**Summary:** You can always count on Weiß for self-absorbed melancholy. Teen and twenty-something angst, in four parts.

**Omi**

Omi wants to trade his memory of his time with Kritiker for that which he has lost. He knows full well that those memories are missing for a reason, blocked by a trauma that he can still taste the fear of in the hours before dawn. He does not care. He was at least young then, surely, if not innocent. Defenseless, harmless, stumbling-blind and in need of protection. He did not have sharp little darts and sharper wit to guard him, then. He could not kill, wide-eyed, in a hundred quick and clever ways. Could not murder for himself, and his team, and hardly ever for the money. Or for justice, of course, although he thinks that he does precious little of that as it is. A pragmatist, the idea of lying with vulnerable softness bared makes him sick with loathing, and a guilty, gnawing want.

Omi quietly studies his classmates, weak and dependent. His eyes are wide in an expression that could be confused for the innocence that he cannot recall ever feeling. He wishes that he needed someone.

**Ken**

Ken is not much bothered by the fact that he can and has killed. The lives that he takes are steeped in vicious, bloody greed. What he wants to forget is that he enjoys it. The battle, a combination of skill, desperation, and reckless luck that rouses his competitive spirit. The slick, satisfying drag of metal through flesh that gives him a headier rush than he ever got on the field. In his heart he knows that he would continue to kill with or without Kritiker to sanitize the act. He thinks that he could give it up if someone needed him to. If he had someone dear to ask him to stop. Still, he controls himself as well as he is able, finding joy in his sport as best and often as he can. The neighborhood children are happy to assist. They breathe excitement for the game as his own interest wanes, anchoring him to the field. He is as much a big brother as a near-stranger can be, and he likes to take care of them as far as circumstance allows.

Ken absently squeezes the shoulder of a boy who played exceptionally hard that day. If he tightened his grip, he could dislocate the small, still-growing bones beneath, and his claws if he were wearing them would gouge a twisted mess. He surveys the too-green field with eyes narrow and dazzled by the sun. He wishes that someone needed him.

**Youji**

Youji's most desperate desire is not for dancing, alcohol, or sex. These are means to an end. He loses himself in the frantic rush of them, and he hopes that if he tries hard enough he will not find himself again. He wants to forget everything. Average happiness and common sorrow have broken him, and he would forget them both. He is a vessel too shallow and thin to hold even ordinary life experience without harm. He is sure that if he ever felt true joy or despair, keenly and without reserve, it would destroy him entirely. He wonders if, the day that he forgets everything, starts over, he will be reborn strong enough to bear the weight of his own experience. He thinks it unlikely. If anything, he will be weaker for it, and the only chance of a peaceful existence that he will have will be if his new life is so bland that he is never put under stress at all. His hunger for such a life is repugnant even to him. It does not stop him from thrusting headlong into oblivion, like frustrated striving for orgasm, almost, almost, nearly, but never quite there.

Youji tries to focus alcohol and strobe light addled eyes on his dance partner, whose face, let alone name, he can't remember. She is more beautiful than and almost as empty as he is. He closes his eyes, and wishes for a new beginning as someone else.

**Aya**

Aya holds close his memories until the most painful bite into him. The more they hurt, the more firmly he binds himself to them. He wants to remember every last one. He prods each like a rotten tooth, a lesson and a penance for blind ignorance. His family's and his own. The media's. The law's. He wraps himself in the shriek of tires on wet asphalt, and the last garbled curses of dead men. Dwells at least as much in his memories of family; noisy, alive, and home, which is a stronger hurt. If he grips his pain tight enough, he can prevent others from sharing it, protect those close to him in some small way. He knows that this is not as selfless as it sounds. Selfless or selfish, he is a willing tool of his sister's restoration, and his family's vengeance, and he will not rest until he sees these done.

Aya will stare ahead with eyes unblinking until his sister opens hers. He sharpens the lone edge of his katana with unwavering focus, and waits for the end.


End file.
